


The Bed-Making

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [12]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Human/elf relations, New Hope, Peysol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the best will in the world, changing long-standing attitudes can be tricky...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bed-Making

**Author's Note:**

> The New Hope settlement is founded in TWR 1180, so TWR 1180 = NH 0 when coordinating dates.
> 
> Originally published in _Tales of the Tower #27_

**NH 30 (Autumn)**

When breakfast was over, Trika gathered up Arista Fire and a couple of the other unmarried women of the Tribe without Name. She shepherded them out of Greenwillow’s main house toward the newly furnished dormitories. A sharp wind tugged at their cloaks and shawls and nipped the ends of their noses as they left the shelter of the courtyard to cross the path behind the house.

“Hmph! I’d say we finished that last batch of wool blankets none too soon,” Trika commented. “Winter will be on us before we know it. Now then.” She swung open the heavy door of the long building reserved for the use of the young women and led them inside. “I’ll wager none of you has ever slept in a real bed before, much less made one up. There are a few tricks to doing it properly, which I’ll show you this morning. Then I’ll leave it to you to teach the other women.” She had already instructed her son Terren to do the same for the men. “Everyone at New Hope is expected to make their own bed.”

“Even _Seahawk_?” said young Mayrina Jetsam, obviously lost in the throes of hero worship.

“Even Seahawk,” Trika replied dryly.

Arista winked at her cousin Shiasti and regarded the Greenwillow chatelaine sidelong. “Even Elder Peysol?” she asked innocently.

Trika sniffed loudly. “ _Especially_ him!”

Mayrina’s eyes opened wide. “But I thought you _liked_ Elder Peysol!” she blurted.

Trika’s eyebrows snapped together. Then her lined face relaxed into a smile. “I do, child,” she said. “Very much.” She pulled open the heavy curtain that screened the first of several sleeping chambers from the hall. “Sit down for a moment.” She gestured toward the unmade beds that stood along either wall. “Before we start on this, let me tell you a story.”

# # # # #

**NH 4 (Spring)**

“Ahhhh.” Peysol rolled over, stretching like a contented cat. “Have I mentioned how good it feels to sleep in a real bed again?”

Beside him, Leravie looked up from feeding Nineki and chuckled. “Only the past three mornings.” Which was how long it was since New Hope’s woodworkers finished the last of the bed frames to receive the mattresses and coverlets and pillows the weavers had been working on all winter. Before that, everyone, elf and human alike, slept on camp beds or straw pallets on the wooden floors, and before that it had been bedrolls. Not that Peysol could recall more than a handful of restless nights even in such spartan conditions. The hard work involved in building a new life for themselves here at New Hope was a more effective soporific than any herb … and he wouldn’t trade a heartbeat’s worth of it for the finest featherbed in Tower Mountain. Still, there was something to be said for basic creature comforts.

Peysol sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. He stood and allowed himself another good stretch—wincing a little as his bare feet hit the floorboards—before reaching for the worn grey wool robe that hung from the bedpost. Perhaps the next winter’s project should be throw rugs, he thought as he padded over to the washbasin and splashed cold water on his face and hands.

The sounds and smells of breakfast being readied were drifting through the curtained doorway of their sleeping room by the time Peysol finished dressing and tossed the robe across the bed within Leravie’s reach. He cocked one blue eye at her. “Coming, beloved?”

Leravie glanced down at Nineki, who was still nursing rhythmically. “I’ll be a little while longer. Save some for me.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Peysol said, grinning, “but if I’m not mistaken, it’ll take some doing. Cheressa’s griddle cakes disappear fast.”

“You can charm some out of her—I know you.”

Peysol grimaced. “Yes, but I don’t like to. I’m dead certain it’s because she’s still thinking ‘Honored Spirit.’ It’s taking unfair advantage.”

“Well, _I_ think your charm would be deadly enough even if you weren’t an Honored Spirit, but you’re probably right.” Her voice softened. “Lifelong beliefs don’t dissolve in a mere hand of years.”

“I know that. But I dare to hope we can speed the dissolution process by _not_ reinforcing them.” Peysol sighed. “See you later, beloved. Don’t be too long.”

 

At breakfast, Peysol and Seahawk decided that the weather was favorable to take out a few boats after whitefish. Accordingly, after the meal was over and he had seen Leravie and Nineki off to Trailingstar Household and the tannery, Peysol returned to their sleeping quarters to fetch his sea-boots. He couldn’t quite recall where he had last put them. They wouldn’t be _in_ the clothespress. They weren’t on top of it. Possibly under the bed? He got down on his hands and knees and started to lift the coverlet—

—the coverlet smoothed down and tucked neatly around the pillows—

—just as it had been last night, and the night before.

Still on his knees, Peysol jerked upright, boots forgotten for the moment. **Leravie!**

His lifemate’s answering mindtouch came almost at once. **Peysol? What is it, beloved?** Her sending held a trace of anxiety at the urgency in his.

**Did you make the bed this morning?**

**Is that all? No, I didn’t, I forgot.**

**Yesterday? The day before?**

**No. Honestly, Peysol, tomorrow I’ll—**

**Someone did. And it wasn’t me, either.**

A pause, then, **Oh. Oh! And you have your suspicions, do you?**

**I do. Too late to catch the culprit now. But tomorrow morning…**

 

“Trika!”

The dark, wiry young woman jumped, dropping the edge of the quilted coverlet, and turned quickly to face the doorway of the sleeping room. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the slim form that always seemed to her to be crowned with sunlight. Caught in the act, she immediately went on the offensive. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Eyes the brilliant blue of a summer sky opened wide. “I was coming,” Peysol said in dulcet tones, “to make the bed.” He straightened from where he leant against the doorframe and came a few steps into the room. “A task Leravie and I have neglected the past few days.” His fair brows drew together in a frown, but one that seemed directed inward rather than at Trika. “Old habits die hard. But we’ve remembered now, and we’ll take care of it. You shouldn’t encourage us to be forgetful, you know, Trika.”

“I never! I mean … it’s not something you should be doing.”

A wry smile twitched the corner of Peysol’s mouth. “You don’t think I know how to make a bed? A reasonable assumption, I suppose, but I do, truly. I can even do tucked corners. Shall I show you?” He advanced toward the foot of the bed.

“No!” Trika tried another tack. “You—you and your lifemate—you’re busy people. Skilled artisans … Elders. You shouldn’t have to take the time to do work like this—work that _anyone_ can do.”

Peysol looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s true. Leravie and I both have many calls on our time nowadays. Almost as many as you do, I suppose, even with a husband and two children to take care of, not to mention running the entire household _and_ weaving in what you laughingly call your spare time. Who makes your bed, Trika?” he asked innocently.

Trika stiffened in indignation. “I do, of course!”

The elf’s eyes twinkled wickedly. “What? A busy person like you? I’ll tell you what, Trika. You can make my bed and I’ll make yours. Would that be a fair trade?”

“No!”

“No? No. You’re right, Trika. We should make our own beds. Each of us—everyone at New Hope. Because we’re not supposed to be masters and servants anymore. That was part of the old life we left behind at the Tower. We can be parents and children, yes—brothers and sisters, even more so. Teachers and learners, yes, all of us … goodness knows I’ve been both, these past few turns. Even leaders and followers. But not elfin masters and human servants and particularly not—please, not—‘spirits’ and worshippers.” He spoke earnestly, his eyes intent on her face as if searching for something. She was not sure if he found it. A moment later he turned away. “Why don’t we both take a hand with this bed? The morning is getting on.”

Trika acquiesced silently. The work did go faster with two pairs of hands. She found herself staring at his in fascination. Slender, four-fingered, a little tanned on the backs. He really did know how to make a tucked corner.

“My mother taught me,” he remarked, following her glance. “When I was about, oh, eight or so, I suppose, and tall enough to have the reach for it. It meant a lot to me then to be able to make my own bed. I was a sickly child, you see, and confined to that bed far too often. Being able to make it up in the morning was a minor triumph, a way of telling the world I was not going to get back into bed till I was ready to go to sleep in the evening.” He smoothed the coverlet over the pillow on his side, and straightened. “Does that make it easier for you, Trika?” he asked, giving her a direct look.

Trika straightened too. “Easier to believe you like making beds?” she asked tartly. “Oh, I suppose so. Have it your own way. Goodness knows I have enough to do.”

“Goodness knows you do,” he agreed gravely. “Thank you, Trika.” He was at the doorway before her, holding the curtain open for her to pass. She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again when she caught his eye.

“I know it’s difficult,” he said, “but it will go faster if we both take a hand.”

She knew he was not referring to bed-making.

# # # # #

After the story and the lesson were over, Arista and the other girls finished making the beds in the dormitory.

“Do you think that story was true?” Mayrina asked Arista.

“Oh, I think so. I’ve seen them together often enough now to be pretty sure.”

Shiasti laughed. “Yes, Trika bosses Elder Peysol around just as much as she does anyone else. I guess she got over _her_ worshipfulness!” She slanted a glance at Mayrina, still starry-eyed over Seahawk.

Arista looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Mostly. But I don’t know. There’s something I’ve noticed … maybe you have too…”

“What’s that?”

“Have you noticed she never says his _name_?”


End file.
